


Why not stay and be caught?

by deirdre_c



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Consensual Underage Sex, Corsetry, First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sam in a Corset, bibbity bobbity boo, loss of a shoe, non-au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 03:01:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3471956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deirdre_c/pseuds/deirdre_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam wishes to go to The Palace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why not stay and be caught?

“Sorry. That’s my final decision.”

“But, Dad—“ Sam says, absolutely knowing it’s futile but unwilling to give up. Not this. “Please. You’re letting Dean go out tonight.”

“Dean’s 20. You’re only 16.”

“Then I’ll go with him,” Sam insists.

“No!” The syllable bursts out of Dean and he looks almost as surprised as Sam feels at the vehemence of it. Sam glares at the betrayal, and Dean has the good grace to look away guiltily. But he doesn’t take it back.

“Most other nights,” Dad says, “it would be no big deal. But Halloween is too dangerous for you to be wandering around.”

“I can take care of myself.” What does Dad make him train for, hours upon hours, if not to be prepared for any kind of trouble that might find him? Just because he’s not as gung-ho about hunting as Dean doesn’t mean he’s helpless. And why the hell did Sam work so hard all day—five loads of foul-smelling laundry washed and folded, the bathroom spotless, the lawn mowed, a full set of supplies and food neatly packed for Dad’s departure on a hunt in a few minutes—if he wasn’t earning the right to go out?

“I said no and I mean it. You’ll salt the perimeter and you won’t open to door to anyone but Dean. Now, I have to go if I’m going to take care of this haunting. You will follow orders on this.” Dad points a finger like he’s pinning Sam to the wall.

Sam grinds his teeth together to hold in the hundred more arguments that are piling up behind them. Finally, he gives a sharp nod.

Dad turns and strides purposefully back toward the bedrooms, thumps open the door to the room Dean and Sam share. A few seconds later, he returns with a bundle of fabric bunched in his hand. “So I guess you won’t be needing this.” 

It’s the costume Sam had tucked away in the bottom of one of the dresser drawers. This dumb pirate thing that had been all he could afford with the money he’d scraped together by skipping lunch at school. Sam doesn’t know whether to be more furious about the meals he’d missed or the fact that Dad has been snooping in his room, but either way he’s not going to sit here and watch as Dad stuffs the costume in his big green duffle and hefts it to his shoulder.

He hears Dad say, “See you on Sunday,” to Dean, but Sam’s already spinning away, flying out of the living room, through their tiny galley kitchen. He slams out the backdoor into the overgrown garden of weeds behind the house, taking refuge on a cast off lawn chair that’s half-hidden under the drooping limbs of an old elm.

He sits there for awhile, knees pulled up to his chest, mindlessly peeling bits of bark from the tree trunk. 

The screen door from the house next to theirs squeaks open, and Sam sees Barbie hop the low fence between their two backyards. He turns his face away to hide any evidence of tears, but he can tell by the soft tone of her “Hey” that she’s figured out something’s wrong. 

He met Barbie when the Winchesters moved in a few months ago, just before the start of the school year. She immediately declared herself Sam’s new best friend and took him under her wing. They’re both sophomores at the small-town high school he’s attending, for now, where he discovered that Barbie is popular in the way that a few outrageous kids sometimes are in a sea of conformists. With her blue-black hair shaved close on one side and falling in a wave to her chin on the other and her pierced septum, with her radical politics and her embrace of an iconic nickname, the rest of the students were either going to pillory her or make her their surrogate in adolescent rebellion. Sam hasn’t quite puzzled out how she managed the latter. Sam himself prefers to fly much lower under the radar—family secrets, things that go bump, and all that—but he’s found that, somehow, the two of them click. 

It’s nice having a friend. Especially given how fucked up and floundering he feels all the time around Dean nowadays. 

Without asking, she climbs into the chair with him, curling her tiny frame in his lap like a kitten. “What’s up?”

“I can’t go tonight after all,” he says over the top of her head. “My dad ‘forbids’ it.” He spits the word out like a curse.

“Oh man,” she says. “That sucks like a Hoover.” 

Barbie had ferreted out his preference for guys early on— _I’m pretty fluid about sex partners myself, gender and number_ she’d told him the first week they’d met, and teased him when he blushed. She’d shown him the website for this club a few counties over near the university—called The Palace—that catered to gay guys, helped him make plans, egged him on when he expressed doubts, offered to drive him since he didn’t have his own car. “Maybe another weekend?”

“Maybe,” Sam replies. But, to be honest, he’d had his courage bolstered by the club’s advertisement for their Halloween Masquerade. Everyone in disguise, masks required. He’s not sure he could just walk right in there in cold blood one night and pick up some random guy. 

Because that’s his plan, aided and abetted by one Barbara Miller. By now Sam’s realized that it would be hard enough with his nomadic lifestyle to find a girlfriend, much less a boyfriend. The two months they’ve settled here notwithstanding, his family just doesn’t stick around long enough. So his only choice seems to be to take a page out of Dean’s book and go for a one-night-stand. 

And he’ll admit part of this plan was inspired by Dean himself. How he comes home in the middle of the night, smelling of booze and sex, rolling into the bed next to Sam’s with a groan that makes Sam tingle and ache. How Sam finds himself jerking off in the shower obsessing over the morning-after hickeys on Dean’s neck, thinking what it would be like to make them and hating himself for it. Sam needs something to blot out this ugly desire, these perverse images of Dean. Online porn doesn’t work, it all turns to Dean in Sam’s fucked up head. So he hopes maybe experience—the touch of someone’s hands on him other than his brother’s—might be an antidote. 

It was going to be tonight. Now, who knows?

“But on the bright side,” Sam says to Barbie, “this frees you up to do something fun. You won’t be stuck carting me around.”

“Yeah,” she says, distain thick in her voice. “Because I was so looking forward to Dylan Decker’s annual bonfire. I hear the whole football team will be there, yippee.”

Barbie bitches about the lackluster social options in a podunk town of 4,000 people, speculates on how many trick-or-treaters their street will see that night, asks him about how his U.S. History project is coming along, and basically cajoles him into a slightly better mood by the time her mom yells for her to come in to dinner.

“Don’t worry,” she calls to him over her shoulder as she trots off. “It’ll all turn out okay. I’m certain of it.”

“Sure it will,” Sam murmurs, slumping and letting his head flop back over the hard rail of the chair. “Sure.”

***

Dean offers to stay home with him that night. He slaps Sam on the arm hard enough to sting. “We’ll get ourselves some pizza and eat mini-Snickers and make fun of the idiots in whatever horror movies they’ve got marathoning on TNT. It’s tradition!”

But Sam can tell Dean’s itching to go out on the prowl. All those girls dressed up as sexy nurses and sexy black cats and sexy whatever? It’s a bonanza for a guy like Dean. 

Plus, Sam’s been finding it more and more uncomfortable to sit next to Dean on the couch alone in the dim light of the tv. The last thing he needs is for his brother to catch him popping wood during _Nightmare on Elm Street_. 

He gives Dean a rueful little smile and slaps him back. “Nah, man. It’s cool. No reason you shouldn’t be out there having fun for both of us.” Dean asks about a half dozen more times if Sam’s sure, biting his lip in a way Sam finds newly distracting, until finally Dean gives up and gets ready to go out.

Sam buries his head in a book to avoid watching Dean primp, but he can’t help when his nostrils flare at the scent of Dean’s cologne wafting out of the bathroom. It seems to take forever, but Dean’s finally ready—wearing nothing special, just his same old black tee and jeans—and Sam mumbles goodbye as he carefully steps over the thin protective line across the threshold, leaving Sam alone in the empty house. Always the one left behind. Unimportant. Forgotten.

Part of him acknowledges that Dean would’ve stayed if Sam had given him the slightest excuse, but he pushes that knowledge down in favor of some very satisfying sulking.

However, Sam only gets a couple of minutes of silence to feel sorry for himself before there’s a sharp rap on the door. He glances at his watch. Five 'til eleven. Who would be knocking at this hour? 

It could be Halloween pranksters… or it could be something else. Better safe than sorry, Sam grabs a knife from where it’s stored under a couch cushion and sidles up to the door.

When he cracks it open, he finds Barbie standing there with a huge grin on her face. She’s dressed up in a mannish, loose black suit, white shirt, black tie. Her hair is gelled back and dyed purple.

“Let’s go,” she says, cocking a thumb over her shoulder to indicate her parent’s sedan idling in Sam’s driveway.

He swings the door open wide, tucking the knife behind him. “I told you,” Sam sighs. “I can’t.”

“Your dad’s gone for the weekend. And I just saw your brother take off. I have to be home by two anyway, way before he’ll come home, so you and me, we’ll just zip over to The Palace and back and no one will be the wiser.”

He glances down at the ratty sweats and hoodie he’s got on, the hole in the big toe of his sock. “I don’t have anything to wear.” It’s outrageous, but something reckless and hopeful starts to rise up in him. Maybe he could have this after all. It might be his only chance at it. 

Barbie says, “I’ve got that covered.” Her smile grows wider and she reaches out to grab him by the shirt. “Now get in the car and let’s go find some tricks and treats.”

He stares out into the night for a moment, teetering on the edge of decision. Finally he says, “Let me go get my shoes.”

***

They drive down the series of dark country roads that lead to the interstate. Barbie reaches under the seat and pulls out a silver flask, takes a swig, and hands it to Sam. It’s freezing cold to the touch and when he takes a sip, it’s like drinking pure, icy sugar and vanilla. A liquid cupcake with a kick. Before this, Sam’s only ever had beers with Dean or a slug or two of Dad’s whiskey when he’s gotten sewn up on a hunt, so he’s not prepared for how delicious this is.

Barbie cranks up the radio. It’s not classic rock.

Forty more minutes and a bit more vodka, and Barbie’s exiting the highway and driving through the heart of a busy suburb. Sam peers around, surprised at all the people thronging the sidewalks. But then he realizes the street they’re on is packed with bars and restaurants, lights twinkling, music from a live band blaring as they cruise by. 

“Is this where The Palace is?” he asks as the car eases to a stop to let a gaggle of evil creatures and scantily-clothed women cross the street. 

“No, that’s two more cities over,” she replies. “This is just a funky little town where my uncles have a place—a store. I’m pretty sure we can find you a costume there.”

“What kind of store is open at this time of night?”

“Just you wait, babycakes. You’ll see.”

They pull into an open parking spot on a block of little specialty shops and tattoo parlors and vintage clothing resale. The lighted sign above the store in front of them reads “Night Magic” and Sam spies in the front window mannequins dressed in Halloween costumes… very, very suggestive Halloween costumes. Like, with lots of buckles and studs and sheer black or red lace. One holds a whip. Another drips with chains.

Barbie’s already out of the car and halfway to the door when Sam calls to her. “You’re telling me your uncles own a _sex shop_?” 

“They prefer ‘adult erotica and fetish boutique,’ just so you know.” She holds the door open for him and Sam can see that inside there are a dozen or more people milling around, drinks in hand, wandering amid aisles of clothing and toys and DVDs and a lot of things Sam can’t even name. 

“What are they all doing in there?” Sam asks under his breath.

“Halloween usually generates their biggest sales of the year,” Barbie explains. “So they tend to stay open all night. My uncles tell me the whole staff likes to come in and they make it a giant party. My parents don’t really approve of me visiting the store. They think it’s inappropriate for someone my age to be exposed to—” she clutches at imaginary pearls “—such appalling things. ” 

Sam glances inside again, but there doesn’t appear to be any flagellation taking place nor anyone hanging from a sex swing. 

“Don’t be shy,” Barbie urges. “Everyone here is awesome. You’ll fit right in.” And with that, curiosity gets the better of his embarrassment. Together they head inside.

The store is _huge_ , way bigger than it looked from the street. And for all its… exotic wares, it doesn’t strike Sam as sleazy or offensive. Just the opposite. The walls are bright primary colors and there are jaunty, hand-painted signs indicating sections for everything from restraints to lubes and oils to makeup and wigs. There’s a whole wall of multi-colored, crazy-shaped dildos right as they walk in that makes Sam’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t have time to investigate because two men rush up to greet them. 

“It’s Itty Bitty Barbie!” the big guy crows, picking Barbie up and swinging her around like a doll. He looks like a college football player gone to seed, built like a bear, and his welcoming grin is wide and contagious.

The man with him is strikingly handsome, and as slender as the other is round. He takes his turn with the hugs, calling her, “Bibbity Barbity Boo!” 

The three of them keep laughing and greeting each other until finally turning to Sam, who feels about like Dorothy must’ve when she stumbled into Oz.

“This is my Uncle August,” Barbie says brightly, and nods towards Mr. Linebacker. “And this is Uncle Jack. Guys, this is Sam Winchester.” 

Sam says hello and shakes each man’s hand. He doesn’t exactly know what else to do, so he decides to let Barbie take the lead.

“So, did you bring him around so we could give our stamp of approval to your boyfriend?” Jack teases her. 

“Of course not,” she says, making a face. “He plays for your team.” She reaches up to clap Sam on the shoulder companionably. “But still riding the bench, if you know what I mean. We’re hoping to get him into the Big Leagues tonight, but we need some help with the uniform.” 

They look at her quizzically. Sam rolls his eyes.

“We’re heading over to The Palace,” she clarifies. “And Sam here needs something sexy to wear.”

“Oh well,” Jack says, eyebrows raised. “Those guys at The Palace, they’re pretty hardcore. Are you sure that’s a good place to, um, start?”

Sam wonders whether he should be worried that a man who sells nipple clamps for a living thinks someplace is too hardcore. But he’s made it this far, he might as well see things through. “I’ll be fine, really,” he assures them, putting on his most earnest face.

Barbie chimes in, “Just one at bat, so to speak!”

Jack ignores her, says to Sam, “They don’t allow kids your age in there. At least, they’re not supposed to.”

“My ID says I’m 21,” Sam says. Between Dad’s forgery skills and Sam’s recent burst of height, he hasn’t had trouble getting into a bar in over a year.

“Okay,” August huffs. “You—“ he points at Barbie, “—quit with the sports metaphors and you—“ he gestures for Sam to follow him. “This way.”

August strides toward the back where a large swathe of the store is taken up by racks and racks of clothes and shoes and boots. As he makes his way, he calls to a cluster of salespeople, “We have a special young customer, ladies and gentlemen. Let’s make him look ravishing!”

The assistants flocks around Sam, twittering over his height and his hair and his hands, pulling at his shirts to peek at his abs, and overwhelming him with questions about favorite colors, fabrics, sexual fantasies. 

Jack catches up with them and shouts for quiet. “Sam, first of all, why don’t you take a look at some of the mannequins and see if there are any outfits that catch your eye?”

He glances around, quickly eliminating anything monster- or witchcraft-themed. He gets enough of that in real life, thanks very much. The other male mannequins he sees tend to feature a lot of leather straps and spikes and stuff that doesn’t really seem like _him_. His eyes graze over a curvy female form in a corset and thigh-high stockings. It’s one of the most traditional displays in the whole place, straight out of the Victoria’s Secret catalogs Dean makes sure are delivered to every permanent mailing address they have. But as Sam slowly walks around, trailed by his bevy of helpers, and glancing over the various clothing choices, he can’t help but sneak another peek at the model with the corset. What would it be like to feel that lace against his skin? The smooth sheerness of the hose encasing his legs? He shivers a little at the thought.

“You know,” August murmurs, leaning in so only Sam can hear. “We have those in larger sizes. The whole ensemble. There are quite a number of our male customers who enjoy tasteful lingerie.”

Sam can feel his face heat up, but he tries to act cool. “It’s not really a Halloween costume though, is it?”

“Are you kidding? Where you’re going tonight? It’ll be perfect.”

They help him pick out an outfit. He initially figures he’ll just go with something all black, but then one of the assistants holds up a delicate white corset in his size. It’s like something a bride would wear, except it’s piped all in light blue along the edges and the vertical seams with a matching blue on the ribbons that criss-cross the back. Sam gingerly reaches out a hand to touch it, gliding a finger down a rib, the satin fabric gleaming like pearl.

“I think this is the one!” a helper sings out. At that, they all scatter, bustling about, one digging in a drawer of lacy things, another sorting through packages of hosiery. One saleswoman, dressed in devil horns and a pointy tail, tugs Sam toward the changing rooms and tells him to strip out of his clothes. 

“Everything,” she orders, when he balks at taking off his boxer briefs. “Don’t worry, honey, we’ve all seen whatever you’ve got a million times before.” Meanwhile, the other staff are tossing things into the room, the first being an impossibly tiny scrap of white cloth that turns out to be underwear. Quick as he can, Sam shimmies out of his boxers and, with a gulp of breath as if he’s about to dive into a cold, deep lake, he pulls the panties on. They’re clearly made for guys, because there’s a pouch for his dick, but there’s also a thong that rides the crack of his ass and the entire front is a mesh of intricate lace. 

Sam looks up at the saleswoman to see her reaction, get a sense of how ridiculous he looks, but she just nods approvingly and holds up a matching bundle of lace. “This is a garter belt,” she explains. “It’s going to hold up your stockings.” 

She drapes it around his waist and fastens the hooks in the back, letting four satin strips hang down to brush his bare thighs. Everything seems to speed up after that. Another woman comes in to show him how to roll up a pair of thigh-highs —“Next time, you’ll have to shave first,” she says with a wink—and one of the guys brings in a pair of long white gloves that extend up over his elbows. He also hands Sam a soft baby-blue skirt. It’s more a suggestion of a skirt, really, not two hand’s width long. Once on, it sits dangerously low on Sam’s hips, showing his flat belly and the sharp jut of his hipbones above and barely concealing either his ass or his junk below. 

Finally they have him lift his arms so they can carefully wrap the corset around him. He watches in the mirror as one assistant swiftly does up the hooks in the front, and as another steps behind to tie him in. She tightens the laces gradually, switching from the top to the bottom, working her way toward Sam’s waist. 

It's not too strange at first, but then she gives a sharper yank, and Sam has to bite his lip to keep from making an embarrassing noise. The thing is so rigid, constraining, he can feel it changing his shape, sculpting curves out of his lean frame. He lays his palms flat on his sides and feels it squeeze into him, again and again, narrowing him, imprisoning him, until his breath is coming in shallow, quick pants. 

“I’m not going to make it too tight your first time,” she tells him over his shoulder. “You’ve got to work your way up to it if you want it really cinched in.” And, lightheaded, Sam boggles at the idea of being able to survive any more than this.

At last, she ties off a bow in the laces, carefully arranging the long ends over the newly-pronounced arch of his spine, down past the hem of his tiny skirt.

They don’t give him a second to adjust before they’re hustling him out of the dressing room, and into a chair in front of a makeup table. Sam’s never even touched an eyeliner pencil or a tube of lipstick, but he lets himself become their canvas. Their live doll. They bring out a wig, too, of long, astonishingly soft and realistic blond hair that they practically staple to his head with dozens of pins. Once that’s secure, they present him with an ornate silver mask that covers half his face, made with metal filigree almost like lace itself. 

They stand him back up in front of a full-length mirror. “What do you think?” one of the gathered group asks. But he can’t exactly say. 

Sam looks, and sees two images. One is of a gawky, stupid-looking kid with too-wide shoulders and too-big hands, a duckling trying to be a swan. But the other image is of softness and sensuality, innocence and enticement. Someone different from Sam Winchester. He smoothes his gloved hand down the long, silky fall of his hair. He could be someone to desire.

Then he shifts his weight, and the silky fabric of the skirt skims over the bare curve of his ass and the elastic of the panties draws his balls tight to his body. A shiver of sensation bolts through him. Oh. 

“It’s wonderful,” he assures them all. 

“Don’t forget the shoes!” someone cries from the back, and a man in full sleeve tattoos and a high-necked leather vest carries two boxes up over his head through the crowd. 

“Unfortunately,” he says, “we’ve sold out of a lot of stock because of the holiday, and we didn’t have that many size 12s to begin with. So you can either have these flats—” he opens one of the boxes to show Sam a pair of plain black slippers. “—Or these.” The second box contains a pair of clear plastic high heeled shoes, the bottoms of the soles an inch thick and see-through, the heels not too high, but skinny enough to be intimidating. Although Sam admits any heel at all would intimidate him. He glances back at the flats, but they seem so mismatched to the rest of his shimmering finery. Screw it, he’s wearing a thong and silk stockings. He can do this too.

“Those, please,” he says, pointing at the heels. 

A murmur of praise and agreement runs among his helpers and the tattooed man bends down to help him slip them on. 

“Take it slow,” the guy advises him, as Sam stands there wobbling like a baby giraffe. “Walk heel to toe. Small steps. Keep your hips and knees loose.”

“Okay,” he says. He tries to draw in a confident breath but the corset stops him. He tugs at the bottom edge of it, then at the lace of one stocking that’s rubbing on the tender flesh of his inner thigh. Sam licks his lips and they taste waxy red.

“Quit fidgeting and get out there,” the devil-horned woman says. And when he looks around, everyone in the group—must be eight or nine of them now—is smiling encouragingly and giving him thumbs up.

He makes his way carefully, but relatively successfully, out into the main store area, looking around for Barbie. She’s up by the front counter, chatting with August as Jack rings up a customer. 

When August catches sight of Sam, he whistles loud and appreciatively. Barbie swats her uncle’s shoulder, but her face is lit up like a jack-o-lantern.

“Jesus, Sam,” she says, making a slow circuit around him, oohing and ahhing. “Is that really you?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not,” he replies. “But that’s kind of the point, right?”

She takes his hand and bows low over it like an aristocrat from olden days. “Your chariot awaits, m’sieur.”

***

The drive to the club isn’t very long, which is good because the corset forces Sam to perch forward in the passenger seat like an uncomfortable tropical bird. And the vinyl seat against his bare skin under the skirt is… interesting.

“Remember,” Barbie tells him as she pulls into the parking lot packed with cars. “We _have_ to leave by 1:15 at the latest to get home by my curfew at 2. I’m sorry that doesn’t give you much time.”

“No, no, it’s good. 1:15. No problem,” Sam assures her. “But are you sure you’re going to be alright out here by yourself?” When they’d been making their plans, he hadn’t realized The Palace would be in such a seedy part of town. The thought of Barbie parked out here by herself in the middle of the night didn’t sit well with him.

“No problem,” she assures him in return. “Look.” And she points toward security cameras mounted on posts in all four corners of the lot. “Besides, there’s a spot right within eyeshot of the door.” She quickly pulls in and kills the engine, hopping out to open Sam’s door and help him to his precarious feet.

“I’ve got my laptop,” she continues. “I’m just going to sit here and work on my novel, same as I would if I were in my room at home. Now you go in there and have a great time.”

“Okay,” Sam says.

“And by great time, I mean at the very least try to get your dick sucked.”

He snorts. “Yeah, I kinda got that.”

He gives her a hug and turns to head toward the door. Small steps. Knees loose. Heel toe.

From behind him he hears Barbie shout, “At the very least!”

And then he joins the line at the door at The Palace entrance.

***

Sam’s surprised when the guy at the door barely glances at his ID, but he doesn’t ask questions, just pays the cover and scoots in the door.

Inside it’s dark as sin. The feeble black lights make Sam’s white costume and blond hair glow, but do little to illuminate much else. The dance floor is mobbed and it’s hardly less crowded on the perimeter. The clientele seems to be almost exclusively men; a few guys in drag, like Sam, but most wearing costumes are simply some combination of lycra shorts or boxer briefs and a hat—police officers, sailors, construction workers—because every other guy Sam passes is bare-chested and their bodies are seriously intimidating. Sam glances down at his scrawny teenage pecs peeking out over the stiff curves of the corset. What seemed back at Night Magic to be too-broad shoulders, too-defined muscles seem positively childish in comparison to what’s on display here.

Sam finds a spot at the bar and goes to sit on an empty stool. But his skirt is slippery and then bunches up and he doesn’t know what to do with his legs and he feels like an idiot, so he settles for just leaning casually against the rail. He turns back to the crowd to people-watch. 

The first thing he notices is how many guys are going at it, right there on the dance floor or against a random pillar or along the walls. There’s even a couple two spots down the bar from him with their tongues working overtime and hands grappling all the bare skin they can find, and then some, rutting against each other. Sam can feel his cheeks flush, and his groin heats up sympathetically, but he doesn’t look away. It’s pretty clear the two are intentionally putting on a show.

Someone approaches on Sam’s other side, a buff older guy in a Dracula cape with, of course, no shirt on underneath. He gets right up in Sam’s space, startling warmth and scent radiating off his skin. He asks Sam his name. Sam fumbles, ducks his head. Now that he’s here, he’s not exactly sure how to go about this hook-up business. 

“Maybe next time, kid,” the guy says when Sam doesn’t give him any encouragement. He strolls off, and Sam kicks himself, because the guy was good looking and seemed nice enough. He doesn’t have time to be turning down good prospects. 

He wraps a hand around the tiny wrist purse that Jack had slipped him before he and Barbie left the store. He traces the outline of Jack’s helpful packets of condoms and lube inside, reminding himself of his purpose. He scans the faces—and bodies—nearby to see if there’s someone else who would be good to try flirting with, to try slipping off into the dark with.

A figure with his back to Sam catches his eye. The guy stands out, unusual in his street-legal jeans and plain t-shirt. His strong jaw and beat-up workboots. Wait, Sam knows those boots. Knows the set of those shoulders and the curve of that neck. And when he turns, Sam sees the amulet glint gold against the black background of his chest. The guy’s wearing a thin band of black fabric across his face with holes cut out for eyes, the kind they were handing out for free at the door, but there’s no denying who it is.

It’s Dean. Dean is here.

Sam freezes like a rabbit catching sight of a wolf, then stumbles back, grabbing at the bar for balance, trying to duck behind another patron to hide. Oh god, oh god, Dean can’t find him here. How could this be happening? 

The man he’s trying to use as a shield surprises Sam by grabbing his arm, making him stagger again, dragging him closer. “Hey there,” too loud, clearly drunk. He’s another big guy, tall, arms thicker than Sam’s neck, but this one’s no Uncle August. When Sam tries to shake him off, the guy just grips Sam’s arm tighter, almost painfully. He shouts over the thrub, thrub of the music. “Looking for a good time?”

“Go away,” Sam hisses desperately, his heart jackhammering, certain any commotion is going to draw Dean’s attention this way. 

“I wonder whatcha got hiding underneath that skirt?” the guy leers, reaching his other hand over to run it up Sam’s thigh. 

“Get off me,” Sam enunciates more clearly, making a fist in his little white glove, realizing he has to deal with this imminent danger before he can escape from the one presented by Dean.

Then the worst happens. Dean appears right behind the guy’s shoulder. “I think you’re done here,” he says to Sam’s harasser.

“Fuck off.”

Dean muscles in a little closer, wedging himself between the guy and Sam. “You were told to hit the road.” 

Sam shrinks back automatically, but there’s really nowhere to hide. The best he can do is let the hair from his wig fall forward to shield his face as much as possible, and pray the mask does the rest.

“Yeah?” the guy sneers at Dean. “And what are you going to do about it, pretty boy?”

Dean’s hand shoots out, grabbing the guy’s cowboy vest in a bunched fist. He shoves the guy back, then yanks him in close, the guy’s head snapping like a rag doll. Dean gets up in his face and growls, hard and dangerous. “I will rip your balls off and tie them around your neck. That’s what I’ll do about it.”

“Fucking hell,” the guy mutters, probably because shouting in Dean’s face at the moment would be suicide. “I don’t need this shit.” Dean lets go and the guy shoves off. 

Sam’s still got his chin ducked, but there’s no way Dean hasn’t recognized him. How the hell is he going to explain himself?

Dean turns to him. “Sorry that guy was hassling you,” he says. “If you really do want to be left alone I’m gone. But maybe you’d let me buy you a drink?”

Sam can’t believe what he’s hearing. Is Dean… picking him up? 

He could still get out of this. He could just take off. There is no question in his mind he should take off as fast as he can.

“I’d like you to stay,” Sam says, barely loud enough to carry over the pounding music, trying to pitch his voice high. He glances at Dean from the side, not willing to let Dean see his eyes, even with the mask on. “You don’t need to buy me anything.” 

“But I want to.” 

Sam nods and Dean signals to the bartender. 

“So,” Dean says conversationally. “Are you a girl, or are you a guy who likes to dress up in girl’s lingerie?” 

The question kind of blindsides Sam. He can’t believe that he looks right enough, natural enough, for Dean to really believe this is who he is. He stutters out, “Just—just a guy. I mean—this—“ he places a hand on his waist where the corset cinches tightest and watches as, from behind his narrow mask, Dean’s gaze rests there too. “I’ve never done anything like this before. It—it was an impulse.”

“Yeah?” Dean glances away, out over the dance floor. “Well, I tried it, too. Once. It was okay. But you—” his eyes dart back to Sam again for just a moment. “You look really hot.” 

Sam’s head is spinning with the hits he’s taking. Dean has cross-dressed before? Dean likes what Sam looks like in this outfit? Dean _still_ hasn’t recognized him? Sam can hardly comprehend what’s happening. But one thing he does know for certain: the way Dean’s looking at him makes him want to get down on his knees and beg. 

“You get lucky here often?” Sam tries to imagine Dean with any of the men he’s seen tonight, but he can’t wrap his head around it. 

“I do okay,” Dean says, the lascivious smirk on his face as familiar to Sam as his own hands. “I like a good hook-up as much as the next guy.” Then the smirk gets replaced by something painfully earnest when he goes on. “But you’re not like anyone I’ve met here before. There’s something about you. You seem so much like—“ Dean trails off. He reaches out to touch Sam’s bare shoulder, and Sam shivers.

The bartender arrives, sets down two shots in front of them, the liquid in them rich amber. Any buzz from Barbie’s flask is long gone, and Sam picks up his glass eagerly, desperate for something to settle his nerves. The alcohol hits his stomach like a gentle bomb, warmth blossoming out into every limb, fears melting away. It makes him daring. It makes him foolhardy. 

Dean’s touch makes him foolhardy.

Dean thinks Sam is someone else. This’s his one and only chance, and he’s taking it.

Sam steps in a little closer, then a little more, one foot sliding in between Dean’s so that he’s almost straddling Dean’s thigh. The corset is his mettle, his buttress, his armor.

He leans in, down, oddly taller than Dean in his heels. Still careful to disguise his voice, he whispers in Dean’s ear, “I came here to get fucked tonight, and I want it to be you. What do you think?”

Dean cocks his head thoughtfully. His lips nearly brush Sam’s mask as he whispers back. “I think I’m in.”

Grabbing Sam’s hand, Dean jerks his chin to indicate the darker recesses of the club. “Let’s find someplace a little more out of the way.”

Dean leads him off through the crowd with eager strides, but quickly adjusts to Sam’s more tentative gait as he shuffles along. Sam’s feet and ankles suddenly ache from the unfamiliar pressure of simply standing in these things. Dean puts an arm around Sam’s waist to support him, to keep him from being pushed around by the other partiers. And just that simple gesture makes Sam nearly melt into him right there. Normally, Sam puts up a fight against Dean’s protective instincts. But something about tonight—his own unexpected transformation, Dean’s astonishing pursuit, the need for secrecy, the fear of exposure—something has him welcoming the security Dean provides. 

But then the hand around Sam’s waist slips a few inches lower, coming to rest on his hip, on the bare strip between corset and skirt. Dean’s thumb begins to rub small circles on Sam’s skin, teasing lower every few turns. Sam gasps at the thrill that jags through him, and suddenly Dean’s embrace is not a shelter, but a snare.

Sam instinctively moves closer, chasing sensation, and Dean shifts slightly so that he’s snugged up behind Sam now. They continue their forward progress past dancers and drinkers and lovers alike, with Dean’s hands both settled above Sam’s hips. Sam feels him stretch his fingers wide, and yes, his hands almost able to span Sam’s waist like this, pulled in tight as he is. 

Despite Dean’s firm grip, when he dips his head to brush his lips along the side of Sam’s throat, Sam nearly stumbles and falls. 

“Almost there,” Dean murmurs in his ear, voice smooth and potent as another whisky shot.

Dean guides him through a doorway into another room of the club. It’s even darker in here, only a few tiny pinpoint lights set into the ceiling, an imitation of stars. Dozens of couches are scattered around the open space and Sam can see shapes—couples, maybe more—sprawled on and around all of them. Dim as it is, Sam has no doubt what’s going on, the distinctive movement of thrusting hips, the stray broken cry of pleasure. 

That could be him and Dean in a minute. His stomach flutters, hot and cold, at the thought.

Sam doesn’t know where they’re going, how they will find a spot in the packed room. Maybe Dean will have to fuck him up against the wall. But while his mind floods with images of Dean shoved up behind him, pressing his face into rough concrete blocks, Dean is steering them to the very back. 

They approach one couch with just a guy sitting alone. Dean keeps one hand on Sam as he digs into his jeans pocket, pulling out a couple of bills and handing them to the stranger. “Thanks.”

When the guy walks off, Sam cocks his head in question. 

“I keep one reserved. Just in case.”

“What a boy scout,” Sam murmurs. 

“Oh, I’m always prepared, sweetheart.” Dean reaches again into his back pocket, and tosses a little tube and a condom onto the couch cushions. 

This time Sam’s gut doesn’t flutter, it twists. He doesn’t have any idea how this is supposed to go, but fuck if he’s not going. The problem is, there’s still danger, he knows he’s still got to hide himself as much as he can. So as much as it kills him, when Dean leans in for a kiss, Sam turns away. 

He kicks off those godforsaken shoes and climbs onto the couch, kneeling on the cushions with his back to Dean. He hesitates for a second, then leans to rest his elbows on the back, the lines of the corset forcing him to arch his spine. His little skirt rides up and Sam can feel cool air on the cheeks of his ass.

He looks over his shoulder to check Dean’s reaction, but Dean’s already moving, crowding up behind Sam to push his skirt up around his waist, running both palms over the bared skin. Sam jerks at the contact, but tries to hold himself still, pretend like he’s used to this. Like he’s familiar with anyone’s touch in such an intimate place. 

Dean strokes and kneads his ass for long seconds, and Sam’s just adjusting to the reality of it when Dean slips a finger underneath the long elastic band of his garter and snaps it, _thwack_ , sharp against his thigh. 

Sam lets out an involuntary yip of surprise, and another one when Dean leans down and _licks_ under the garter at the sore spot, his finger moving down to sneak under the lace edging of Sam’s stocking and rub softly back and forth. 

The corset’s suddenly too-tight again as Sam struggles for breath, his cock filling and pressing painfully against the confines of his panties. He tries to sit up, but Dean places one hand splayed flat on Sam’s back, the skin of his palm hot in the gaps between the corset’s laces. 

“Easy. Stay there for a second,” Sam hears him say with a shush. He feels the tug of Dean pulling at the thong and easing it out to the side. 

It was the slimmest strip of fabric, but without it Sam’s uncovered, exposed, right there under Dean’s gaze, and Sam’s face _burns_ even as his cock jumps when Dean slides the tip of his finger into Sam’s crack and gently touches the furled muscle of his hole. Little strokes, slow circles, and Sam’s squirming, twitching, sensation bursting out from that one tight spot, ricocheting all around his body, and sinking back into the throbbing heat of his dick. 

Dean’s hand on his back pushes down harder, urging Sam flatter, even as he gets a knee in between Sam’s legs and nudges them wider too, until Sam’s truly open fully to him. The soft touches are back, barely along the rim of his opening, then a shallow dip of the tip of Dean’s finger inside him, and Sam lets out a sound, a weird pleading mewl that he’d never imagined himself making. He doesn’t even care, even know why, other than he needs more. Needs Dean to do _something_ , to help him, to, to—

“So sensitive,” Dean hums. “That’s good.” He reaches around and cups Sam’s cock where it’s practically bursting out of the lacy seams. Like magic, Dean flips the front panel down, pulling it so the elastic snugs under Sam’s balls. He runs his palm up the burning-hot skin of Sam’s shaft, the sleek metal of his ring dragging a bright line from root to tip. 

Instantly, Sam bites his lip to muffle a shout of relief, of pleasure, and he comes, thick blurts that coat Dean’s hand and make a mess all over the couch cushions underneath him.

Dean strokes him through it, his murmurs of encouragement barely heard above the ringing in Sam’s ears. “That’s right. Pour it out for me. Gonna be nice and loose now. Gonna let me in, let me feel you. ”

Sam’s head swims and he has to curl down and rest it on his gloved wrists, the wig’s long hair like a curtain, shutting out the club. He’s gulping for air now, trying to catch his breath, his ribs straining against the sides of the corset as weak echoes of his orgasm continue to shudder through him. 

But Dean only gives him a moment’s respite and then his hands are back, this time his fingers slick with lube. There’s nothing gentle or slow this time. Dean sinks one finger deep inside him, a stinging, alien intrusion. Every one of Sam’s fizzling nerve endings screams back to life as Dean rubs his finger against Sam’s tender insides, straining against the narrow walls, drawing slowly out only to push back in with two. 

“Oh fuck,” Sam cries, but then bites down on his own hand, the residue of his lipstick staining the satin red. He can’t make noise, can’t risk Dean hearing and recognizing him, even as he’s taking Sam apart with the same deliberation he uses to clean a weapon or fix a car: careful, expert, reverent. 

Dean keeps stretching him open with a rasping, exquisite friction Sam’s helpless to resist. More lube, so much Sam’s dripping with it, and Dean adds a third finger to press in again, and again, until one particular plunge sends a shock of lightning up Sam’s spine and wrenches another muffled sound free. Because Dean just hit a perfect livewire spot inside him, and Sam wonders if he could come again so soon, just from that. That one spot _there_.

He mindlessly grinds back, clenching and flexing, chasing that feeling. Without warning, Dean stops moving his hand, just holds it still for Sam to fuck back onto. So Sam does, circling his hips, desperate with want, spearing himself on Dean’s fingers. It makes his stomach feel hollowed out and hot, what he must look like, what Dean must see. But he’s woozy with this feverish rush through his veins, and no shame can compete with the prickling ache inside him. 

And then just as the stretching burn starts to ease, Dean’s fingers are gone and Sam is left empty.

"Hold on, baby. Hold on." Dean sounds like he just ran a mile. Sam feels like he’s run ten.

A wrapper rustles, Dean’s belt buckle clinks, and then there’s a wet rhythm that must be Dean rolling on the condom. Sam sits up a bit, takes a firmer grip on the couch, lightheaded, trembling, a cocktail of adrenaline and trepidation making his chest clench like a fist. Because it hits him hard—despite the fact that he’s already come with his brother’s hand on his dick—that they’re really going to do this. 

The stiff, slick jut of Dean's cock brushes against the inside of Sam's thigh as Dean maneuvers himself into place between Sam’s legs. With one hand, he bundles all of Sam’s hair and tucks it over one shoulder, causing cool air and Dean’s warm breath to swirl together over his bare neck and back. Dean’s other hand comes around to fondle Sam’s cock and his balls, smearing them with leftover lube, short strokes that urge him back to full hardness, distracting him so that the blunt nudge up against his hole comes almost as a surprise. 

Sam tries to breathe deep, forgetting he can’t, and yet what little air he has is driven out of him as Dean slowly pushes inside, this time with something bigger, more rigid, too hot, too much. Sam tries to squirm away, clawing at the fabric of the couch, but there’s nowhere to go. Dean pushes in, a little farther, and another inch still. Sam doesn’t think it’s ever going to end, the progression of searing, stinging thrusts, each one shoving deeper inside him until Sam can’t believe he has any more room.

“Shh. Settle down, now. Relax. Let me in.” It’s the bone-deep familiarity of that voice murmuring in his ear, coaching, coaxing, that prompts Sam to give a little nod, that lets him unclench his muscles—his knotted thighs, his tense fists—and let his knees slide, just the slightest bit wider, out to the sides again. “Ahh, that’s it. Bear down for me as I move. There you go.”

Dean keeps coming, but Sam’s ready for it, willing his body open to the thick intrusion. Closer in now, Dean wraps an arm around Sam’s chest and his hand slips under the lip of the corset to coast over Sam’s nipple, teasing at the peak. Sam’s whole body hitches at the sweet jolt that connects that tiny point with his cock. 

Dean huffs out a laugh, the bastard, and his thumb and forefinger begin to pinch and twist in time with the punches of his hips. Sam trembles, his nipple starting to throb as raw and red as his ass, but in both of them the pain is morphing into pleasure and all of Sam’s wires are crossed. 

He can barely breathe at all now, just little sips at the air that don't even make it into his lungs. The corset makes him too narrow, and Dean’s cock—the thick, hot weight of it—takes up the small space left inside. 

Then Sam feels the unexpected touch of Dean’s bare thighs as he comes to rest fully seated inside him. Dean holds himself still, and in that static moment, Sam finds that the fear in his belly has melted away, liquid heat dissolving everything except for the need for Dean. His relentless need for Dean.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” Dean mutters into the dark, as if he can read Sam’s mind. He curls over Sam’s back to mouth at his shoulder blade, his tongue tracing a triangle there, over and over, in the sheen of sweat that gilds him. Sam can feel the amulet dangling down to brush against his skin, too, mirroring Dean’s caress. “Wanted you.”

It’s said so softly, Sam’s not sure he heard right. But it no longer matters, because Dean rears back and starts fucking him for real. 

The first astonishing thrust wrings groans from both of them, and Dean just ups the ante from there. He pistons into Sam with swift, skillful rolls of his hips, more intense than anything Sam’s ever imagined. Sparks strike, rushing along his nerves every time Dean drives against that bright-sweet place. His arms shake as he lets go of the back of the couch and stretches to push against the wall behind it. It gives him leverage, and when Dean pushes into him again, Sam pushes back. 

"My God." Dean’s voice is so rapt it makes Sam pause, even as he scrabbles and heaves to try to match Dean’s rhythm. "You’re fucking perfect. You can't imagine…I never thought I'd have this, never." And he slams in so hard Sam’s knees nearly buckle under him. 

It’s a battle then, pure coarse rutting. Dean shoving forward, Sam pushing back. On and on, the pleasure wracking him making everything more intense: the garters scraping his skin, the corset digging into his belly, the cornstalk hair flicking over his face. And just when Sam thinks he’s about to fly apart, every other breath a sob, Dean pulls all the way out, grips Sam’s hips, and spins him 90-degrees, laying him down over the low arm of the couch. Sam’s ass, open and needy, sits high in the air. Dean lines up and thrusts his dick back inside. 

The new angle lets Dean plunge so deep Sam thinks he can taste him in his _throat_. Sam wants to yell, but he can’t even get enough air to whimper. Suddenly Dean’s hand is there, wrapped around his cock, tight and almost punishing. Sam bucks up uncontrollably, writhing and thrashing at the unbelievable sensations warring inside and out. He feels Dean tuck his fingers in the laces of Sam’s corset, yanking them even tighter, restraining Sam’s wild movements. The corset is a harness and Dean is riding him, breaking him, as Sam bucks like a wild horse beneath. 

Dean tugs at the laces in time with each drive into Sam’s ass. The rigid line of his cock works ever deeper, his hand speeds faster, harder, thumbing at the slit, compelling Sam to come. 

Sam cries out, unable to resist. Every muscle seizes as his pleasure peaks and peaks again, his balls clenched up tight underneath him, his body clenched tight around Dean’s cock. White-hot, endless spasms spill out of him until he falls—a limp, pliant mess—against the gross, scratchy fabric of the couch.

He hears Dean let out a rough sob and his hips stutter one last time, then he goes utterly still. A moment later Sam can feel Dean’s dick thicken, then pulse, shooting his release into the condom. It’s the greatest thing Sam’s ever felt in his life, this feeling of Dean coming inside him.

***

There’s a blur of lost time as Sam comes back to himself gradually, like a feather drifting slowly to the floor. He blinks, and winces a little as he feels Dean’s hips shift back, carefully withdrawing. Sam should probably move, sit up, start putting himself back together. And he will, in one more minute.

But then Dean leans back in, planting one hand on the couch next to him, right in Sam’s line of sight. The sweet lethargy that was gripping him is immediately swept away. Because Sam can read the florescent dial of Dean’s watch, and it says 1:14.

Sam rolls out from under Dean and off the couch, scrabbling, scrambling, grabbing his shoes up off the floor. He bolts. He hears Dean call out behind him, but with his shoes off, Sam is quick. He rabbits his way through the maze of couches and through the door to the club’s main room. 

His ass is sore, and he can feel a tiny trickle of lube running down his thigh, but he can’t worry about any of that right now. The shortest distance to the exit is across the dance floor, so Sam starts to push his way through, getting jostled and squeezed and his toes stepped on. Then someone bumps Sam, hard, and knocks the shoes out of his hands. He sees one get kicked away, skittering across the dance floor. He snatches up the one at his feet and goes to chase the other when he hears Dean’s voice again, “Wait!” 

Sam gives up on the other shoe with a muffled swear, running for the door.

Barbie is outside the car, leaning against the passenger door when Sam comes sprinting out. 

“Sorry,” he gasps.

“I knew you’d make it,” she says. “Get in.”

As they race out of the lot, Sam quickly strips off stockings and skirt and pulls on his sweats over the panties to keep from making a mess on the seat. He pulls enough of the pins out of his hair to pull off the wig and toss it into the back. He turns wordlessly with his back toward Barbie, and with one hand she undoes the tied bow of the corset strings and looses them enough to allow Sam to release the hooks in front.

He takes his first real breath in hours. Then slumps against the window like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Did you have fun?” Barbie asks.

“Yeah.” Sam reaches up to pull another stray bobby pin from his hair. 

“Are you going to tell me about it?”

“Um. I don’t think so. Not yet, at least. It’s—it’s kind of a big deal.” He feels numb, like in a state of shock. All the emotion, everything that just happened, it’s too much to process, it’s blown out his circuit board. He tucks the bobby pin in the pocket of his hoodie.

“Aww,” Barbie says, only half-mocking. “That is the cutest thing. A boy’s first rogering.”

“Shut up,” he says softly, poking her side. “And thanks.”

***

Whoever said ‘better to have loved and lost’ didn’t know what the hell they were talking about, because Sam is suffering pure agony. The sound of Dean’s voice, the way he sits sprawled out in a kitchen chair, the warm rumpled sheets of his bed that Sam has to muster every ounce of willpower he’s got not to touch when Dean gets up in the morning. Everything, _everything_ , takes him back to those moments at The Palace.

If he’d been cracked before, now he’s fragmenting, giant fissures widening and the thick, the shameful mess inside him bubbling to the surface. 

He’d given everything back to Barbie to return or get rid of. Everything except the unpaired shoe. The shoe he’d saved is carefully hidden in a paper bag in the attic. He dare not keep it anywhere near his stuff, now that he knows Dad goes through it.

He tries to hide himself, too, more desperate and off-balance than he’s ever been, Each morning he rolls out of bed for school at the last possible second to avoid interaction, grabbing a piece of fruit or a couple of powerbars as he scuttles through the kitchen. And thank god it’s soccer season, so he has an excuse to be at school until late. At home, he holes up in the bedroom, behind his computer screen and his AP Chem homework. 

He overhears Dean and Dad out in the living room, muttered conversation about Sam’s withdrawal: Dad insisting it’s just normal teenage angst, Dean sounding concerned and skeptical. And that just adds to Sam’s guilt. He’s punishing Dean for his own stupidity, making Dean worry. But no matter how Sam tries, he can’t seem to recapture any normal sense of himself. 

His body knows the feel of Dean’s now. Just one taste and he’s jonesing worse than any drug addict.

On Thursday, Dad up and leaves town again, word of something, possibly a kelpie, almost a whole day’s drive south. Dean begs to go along with him. This time Sam lends his voice as well, pointing out Dad’s never encountered one before, could use backup, insisting he’ll be fine here by himself. _Please, please, either take him or stay,_ Sam pleads silently, dreading the thought of a whole weekend or more alone with Dean in the house. 

But Dad lives to make Sam miserable, and he takes off that morning. He leaves a handful of bills on the kitchen counter and a note detailing the skills-training they’re required to do while he’s gone.

“Training,” Dean grumbles, pouring milk into two bowls for their breakfast. “What are we training for if he’s not going to use us on hunts? Right, Sammy?”

“Right,” Sam replies weakly, watching the way the sun glints off the fine hairs of Dean’s arm.

After soccer practice, a bunch of his teammates stick around to play hoops. Shirts and skins. Sam joins in. They’re playing hard when Dean rattles up in his ancient Ford. He gets out and walks toward the court with a casual wave, asks if Sam wants a ride home. Sam can’t come up with a ready excuse, so he agrees. He trots over to the bench where Dean’s waiting, suddenly and keenly aware that he’s half-naked under Dean’s shrewd gaze. Sam leans down to grab his shirt and turns his back to Dean to yank it on. Scooping up his backpack, he makes a beeline for Dean’s car. 

The atmosphere on the ride home is suddenly colder than a meat locker. Dean turns up the radio too loud for conversation, eyes fixed straight ahead like something’s about to jump into the road ahead. When he pulls through a Wendy’s drive thru for dinner, he doesn’t even bother asking Sam what he wants, just orders for both of them. He shoves the bag at Sam without looking at him. 

Sam’s not sure what set him off, but he holds himself still and quiet, hoping whatever it is will blow over. He can’t stand when Dean’s pissed—especially when he’s pissed at _Sam_ —and usually he’d pester Dean until the problem got resolved. But nothing is usual now. 

They park in front of the house and Dean just sits there, hands at ten and two on the wheel. Like he’s going to drop Sam off and keep driving. 

“I’m going in to take a shower,” Sam announces and hustles inside.

When he comes out of the shower, towel wrapped around his waist, he walks into the bedroom to find Dean waiting in ambush. 

He’s sitting on Sam’s bed with a shoe in his lap. The shoe. Sam can’t believe he found it in the attic. 

But then it hits him. That’s the right shoe, not the left.

“Dean—“ 

“You’ve got three moles on your shoulder,” Dean says, eerily calm. “I’d forgotten that you had those.” 

It’s like a knife plunged deep into his gut, the pain that rips through him. 

“I’m sorry. It’s sick. I’m sick. I never meant to hurt you.” He knew there was a possibility Dean would find out, but it was so horrible to think about, so catastrophic, Sam never made a plan of what he’d do in the event. 

“I didn’t know it was you,” Dean goes on, as if Sam hadn’t spoken. “But you knew it was me.” 

Sam needs Dean to look at him. To stop looking at the shoe. To stop running his hands over it, his fingers gently tracing the sharp line of the heel, the long curve of the sole. Dean’s hands. The shoe. Stop.

“I never meant for you to find out,” Sam swears. “But that’s—that’s not an excuse. It’s just—It was stupid and selfish and oh god, Dean. I—You were right there, offering, and, um, I wanted you to be my first.”

Dean flinches like Sam slapped him. “There? With some stranger in a skanky bar on that filthy couch? That was your first time?”

Sam wants to say that it was better than he ever imagined. All he ever wanted. But he’s already fucked things up enough. He clings to the towel like a lifeline, fist clenched so tight his knuckles ache. His throat closes up over unshed tears. He’s disgusted with himself. “I’m sorry.” 

Dean still won’t look at him. Maybe he never will again. Sam will pack his things and walk out the door and they’ll never speak again. Because Sam made the worst mistake of his life. 

Dean’s still looking at the shoe. “I went back and searched all over for this after he— _you_ —ran off without it.”

Sam can’t help himself. “Why?” he croaks.

“You say you’re sick,” Dean says, still so calm. Sam wishes he’d shout, that he’d put a fist in Sam’s face. It couldn’t hurt worse. “You know what else is sick? That I picked you up in the bar, that I fucked you there,” Dean’s mouth twists over the words, “because I wanted to pretend it was my little brother. I wanted to fuck some strange kid and pretend it was you.”

A wave of realization crashes over him as the sense of what Dean’s saying nearly knocks Sam to his knees. He struggles to stop himself from shaking, to hold himself stock-still, knowing that whatever follows will remake the entire world.

“What do we do now?” he asks, as neutral as he can possibly pitch his voice. Because Sam’s the one who brought this on them, and the next move has to be Dean’s.

Dean lurches off the bed and lands on the carpet right at Sam’s feet. He holds out shoe.

It takes Sam a second to process. But, as he looks down into Dean’s upturned face, his anxious expression, he understands everything this means. There’s no masks now… not on Dean, not on him. 

Sam answers the unspoken question by putting his palm flat on the wall for balance. He lifts his foot, slipping it into the shoe. 

Dean looks down, holds it in both hands, as if the cheap plastic is something priceless. He moves his thumb, skimming it slowly over the thin skin of Sam’s ankle, tracing down his tender arch. Sam can’t contain the soft whimper that bubbles up in the back of his throat.

“I just want you to be happy, Sammy,” Dean whispers, his head still bowed. “And—and I want to be the one to make you happy.”

Sam laughs. He laughs like he might never stop, but then falls to his knees next to Dean on the floor. Sam lets the towel slip through his fingers so he can bring both hands up to take his brother by the shoulders. 

“You do. You always will. Forever.”

And with that, he leans in for their first kiss. Because nothing could make him happier than that.

***

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the super-disney challenge on livejournal, for the prompt of Cinderella. Created as a little tribute to my darling dear, cherie_morte, and what better gift could I give than Sam in a corset? Heartfelt thanks to dreamlittleyo and girlguidejones for their stellar beta-duties, especially given that they had to wade through half-finished fic. All remaining errors are mine alone.


End file.
